


within reach or view

by oops_ohdear



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-12 11:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18445193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oops_ohdear/pseuds/oops_ohdear
Summary: Jon and Tommy have to pretend not to date. Which should be pretty simple, since they're not dating.





	within reach or view

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nervousbakedown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervousbakedown/gifts).



Tommy hauls the last of his boxes out of the moving truck a little after noon on a Tuesday. Jon’s nominally there to help, but mostly he’s been trying to stay out of the way of the movers. Tommy is constitutionally incapable of watching other people do his work even if he’s paying them to do it. 

“There we go,” he says, settling the box on the kitchen counter with a muted thud. He’s flushed red with exertion and Los Angeles sunshine. Jon can’t help grinning at him. 

“What?” Tommy asks. 

“Did you tip those guys?” Jon asks. 

“Obviously,” Tommy says.

“How much of their actual jobs would you say you let them do? Twenty percent? Twenty-five?” 

“Shut up,” Tommy says without any heat. “Seventy-five. At least. It would’ve been less if you were pulling your weight.” 

“There was no weight to pull,” Jon says, spreading his hands out mid-air to show the complete lack of weight. “I let the _professionals_ pull the weight while I—”

“Sat in the living room critiquing my books,” Tommy says. 

“Unpacking your books,” Jon says. “Zero critique. I can’t remember the last time I read a book for fun. Who am I to judge?” 

“Well, now you don’t have time,” Tommy says. He pulls open the box and starts lifting out plates. “What with the—what did Lovett call it? Burgeoning media empire?” He’s smiling too. Jon wonders if it’s about the burgeoning media empire, or about the moment more broadly; Tommy’s always better off once a decision’s too late to reverse. The move from San Francisco to LA has been a long time coming and Tommy’s admitted as much himself over the last few months, but Jon knows there was something in him fidgeting, worrying, weighing pros and cons, until he closed on the house. Or maybe longer than that—maybe until now, with the moving truck pulling away from the curb and Tommy’s feet firmly on the ground. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jon says, because Tommy should hear it. Tommy glances over at him and then back at the cupboard, where he’s arranging the plates in stacks. 

“Me too,” he says. “It was time—with the tours and the new shows and everything.” 

“It was getting pretty silly, you flying down here every other day,” Jon says. He _did_ mean because of the company—he just also meant because it’s Tommy, and having Tommy closer can only be a good thing.

“I’ve got killer frequent flyer miles though,” Tommy says. “I could leave tomorrow for Cabo or wherever, no problem.” 

“And abandon our burgeoning media empire?” Jon asks. Tommy snorts, and settles another dish in the cupboard as his phone trills. He pulls it out of his pocket. 

“Taylor,” he says by way of explanation. “She wanted to FaceTime and see the new place.” He swipes at the screen, and then says, “Hey, kiddo,” turning to lean back against the counter and holding the phone level with his face. 

“I’m thirty-one years old,” Taylor says, tinny through the speaker. “You can stop calling me kiddo any time now.” 

“Fat chance,” Tommy says. Jon laughs to himself, and moves around Tommy to take over with the plates. Might as well be useful now that the movers are gone.

“What?” Tommy says. He arches an eyebrow at Jon over the top of the phone. 

“Nothing,” Jon says. “You just sound like you’re about twelve. ‘Fat chance.’” 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Like you’re not exactly the same around Andy,” he says, at the same time Taylor says, “Is that Jon? Hi Jon!” 

“Hi Taylor!” Jon calls. 

“Get over here, if you’re going to say hi,” Taylor says. Jon can hear the echo of her own Vietor eyeroll in her voice. “They call it _Face_ Time for a reason.” 

“Words of wisdom,” Jon says. He slides in next to Tommy against the counter, bumping their shoulders together, and peers at the screen to make sure he’s in frame. “Hi, Taylor.” 

She smiles at him, bright and easy. “You look very Californian,” she says. “So tan! That’s never going to happen for Tommy.”

“Hey, I live in LA now,” Tommy says. “Maybe I’ll discover a heretofore unknown talent for tanning.”

“Or _maybe_ you’ll discover that our pasty Dutch skin was never meant to go west of the Mississippi,” Taylor says. “You look like a tomato right now. You look gross and sweaty. Jon, is he gross and sweaty?” 

Tommy’s warm against Jon’s side, and his face _is_ still flushed—Jon hopes he wore sunscreen while he was needlessly lugging boxes around. He presses the back of his hand against Tommy’s forward and makes a considering face.

“Don’t drag Jon into this,” Tommy says even as he bats Jon’s hand away.

“ _I_ didn’t drag Jon anywhere,” Taylor says nonsensically, and then, “I knew you should’ve bought a house with a pool. You live in LA! I can’t _believe_ you don’t have a pool.” 

It’s clearly a well-worn conversational track, because Tommy just shakes his head, rueful. 

“You’re gonna wish you had one,” Taylor says. “It’s only April—imagine July!” 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Good thing I know a guy.” He digs a gentle elbow into Jon’s ribs. 

“Oh yeah?” Jon says. 

“Yeah, and he’s a real pushover,” Tommy says. “Pretty sure I can use his pool whenever I want.” 

Jon doesn’t bother disputing it—Tommy mooching pool time all summer sounds pretty great, especially as an alternative to Tommy in San Francisco all summer. 

“Hmm,” Taylor says. From the living room, Leo barks. 

“He probably wants a walk,” Jon says, and then: “Leo,” in case Taylor couldn’t hear the barking over the call. “I better take him out. That would _not_ be a good housewarming gift.” 

“Ew,” Taylor says, wrinkling her nose. 

“If Leo pees in my house I’m revoking his standing invitation,” Tommy says, which is a bald-faced lie. Tommy catches Leo up in a hug every time he sees him, and the same with Pundit—Jon’s pretty sure there’s no dog Tommy wouldn’t welcome into his home, regardless of their housetraining situation.

Still: “Yeah, I’m gonna go,” Jon says. “I’ll give him a walk around the block or something and then head home—Taylor I’ll see you, what, next week?” 

“Yep!” She says. “Flights are booked, luggage is packed. I needed an excuse to visit LA, I’ve been waiting for Tommy to move for ages.”

“You and me both,” Jon says. “Have a good night. I’ll see you soon!” 

Leo comes puttering around the corner and Jon pushes away from the counter, trying to remember if he’s got a leash in the car. 

“I know, buddy, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. C’mon, let’s go.” He waves to Tommy and Tommy nods, half his attention still on Taylor as she says, “You could’ve told me.” The conversation fades as Jon follows Leo down the hall. The last thing he hears is Tommy ask: “Told you what?,” and then Jon closes the front door behind him.

 

 

Crooked Media is just barely ahead of Tommy when it comes to settling into a new home. By day Jon audiences Lovett’s gleefully absurd ideas about office decor, and in the evenings he swings by Tommy’s with Leo and takeout to help put together furniture and unpack boxes. It’s the third time that he’s helped Tommy move—DC, then Chicago, and now LA. Jon hopes it’s the last time for a while. 

On Sunday morning, the day before Taylor’s due to arrive, Jon’s getting back from a run when he gets a text from Tommy. _Day of rest_ , it says, carefully punctuated like Tommy’s texts always are. _Don’t bother coming over, nothing to help with. I’m being lazy._

 _Day of rest huh,_ Jon replies. _Too bad you don’t have a pool I bet that would be REALLY restful._

He figures Tommy will send back the textual equivalent of an eyeroll, or just a picture of his middle finger. Instead, his phone starts to ring. 

“You know you _can_ come over and use the pool if you want to,” he says. Tommy sighs, half a laugh, and says, “Yeah, about that.” There’s a pause. Jon toes off his tennis shoes. 

“Taylor had a, uh—she got the wrong idea, from that phone call,” Tommy says. 

“About the pool?” Jon says. There’s another pause. Jon makes his way into the kitchen and fills up a water glass, and Tommy pauses right through it. 

It’s weird that Tommy’s calling instead of texting, especially when they _were_ texting in the first place. It’s weird that Tommy’s silent, now, on the other end of the phone. 

“Not about the pool,” Jon says. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing like that,” Tommy says. “Sorry, no—nothing bad. It’s just kind of stupid. I don’t really know how to explain it, even. Just she, uh, she thinks that we’re—together.”

“Together like…?” Jon says, and then his brain catches up to his mouth. There’s not really a lot of ways Taylor might assume they’re together. “Oh. Wait, really?” The laugh bubbles out of him, surprised and relieved. “Just because I was there when she called?” 

“I know, I know,” Tommy says. “I said it was stupid.” 

“ _Taylor’s_ not stupid though,” Jon says. “She must’ve had a better reason then that.” It had felt, for a minute, like Tommy was working his way up to genuinely bad news. This is pretty benign. 

“I don’t know,” Tommy says. “Me saying I was going to use your pool, I guess. And—” 

“And what?” Jon says.

“I don’t know, don’t ask me,” Tommy says again. “She _is_ smart, but I don’t understand how her brain works. The point is she thinks we’re dating, and I tried to explain, but she’s upset.” 

Jon sets his water glass down. He should be doing cool down stretches right now, but he doesn’t want to rush Tommy off of the phone. This conversation has taken too many turns for him to try and finish it at speed. 

“Upset that—”

“No,” Tommy says. “Shit, no, not like that—she knows I’ve dated guys.” 

Jon blinks.

 _I didn’t know that,_ he thinks. He doesn’t say it. Instead he opens his mouth to say—something. The right things, the supportive, unselfish things, things he’s said before to other friends. Things he’s _good_ at saying. But Tommy forges ahead before Jon can say anything at all. “The point is, that’s why—this wouldn’t have come out of left field for her. So she thinks we’re dating and she thinks I’ve been keeping it from her, and she’s upset.”

“Okay,” Jon says. He shoves the rest of the conversation firmly aside. He’ll deal with it later; this is clearly what Tommy’s been working up to. “How do we fix that?” 

“Right,” Tommy says. “I think just—this is going to sound stupid too. It’s fine. This whole conversation is stupid. I don't think we need to _do_ anything, exactly. It's not like we have to pretend not to be—I mean, I already told her the truth. So just don't, you know—"

"Lay one on you in the middle of dinner?" Jon says.

"—right," Tommy says, and chuckles. "Exactly, that's—yeah."

"Got it," Jon says. "Seriously, Tom, if there's anything else—I mean I can talk to her, if you want?"

"No," Tommy says. "It’s not—this is all something out of nothing. I just don't want her thinking I'm keeping stuff from her, I guess. I was already the guy who spent five years in politics too busy to come home for holidays half the time, and now I'm the guy who lives three thousand miles away. I just don't need to be keeping secrets too. Sorry to even—you probably didn't even need to know about, like, any of this. I didn't want her to say something weird or catch you by surprise or anything." 

"Sure," Jon says. "It's fine, you know that—we've had weirder conversations than this, Tommy. We filled out our SF-86es together." 

Tommy laughs. 

"So now the question is who's better at collecting intel, the entirety of the American intelligence community, or my sister?"

"Guess we'll find out tomorrow night," Jon says. 

"Guess so," Tommy says. "Thanks for being—you know. I'll see you at the office tomorrow."

“See you tomorrow,” Jon echoes. He ignores the nagging instinct that says Tommy’s apologizing for things he shouldn’t be, that something’s still not quite right. If anything’s really wrong, he’s got a better chance of figuring it out in person, anyway. 

 

 

Nothing _seems_ wrong on Monday. Tommy’s already at the office by the time Jon gets there, but he’s also planning to duck out early to pick Taylor up from LAX so on balance Jon chalks it up as a sign of professional responsibility and not insomnia. 

“Morning Leo,” Tommy says. Leo trots and snuffles at Tommy’s shoes, and Tommy bends down to scritch between his ears. “Morning Jon.” 

“Morning,” Jon says. Tommy’s not looking at him, either, but that’s—only then Tommy does look up and smile, easy and familiar. _Something out of nothing_ , Jon reminds himself, and heads for his desk.

 

 

Tommy heads out for the airport around three.

“Quick!” Lovett says. “He’s gone! What should we do? TP his desk? Put all his—what was it on The Office, put all his stuff in jello? Let’s do that. Who has jello?” 

“Nobody has jello,” Jon says.

“We could _get_ some jello,” Elijah says helpfully. 

“Finish your interview questions for tomorrow or I’ll put _you_ in jello,” Tanya says to Lovett. To Elijah she says, “We are not buying jello on the company dime just so you have something to put on Instagram.”

“It’s a marketing expense!” Elijah says.

Jon’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Tommy.

 _Remember you’re invited to come grab dinner with us tonight,_ it says. _Taylor wants tacos. And remind the rest of the office too?_

Before Jon can, there’s a followup buzz. 

“Who are you talking to over there?” Lovett demands. “Are you talking to Tommy right now? Is it in the best bro code of conduct that you have to tell him the moment a gelatin-based product comes near his stapler?”

_By which I mean remind Lovett that once he actually comes out he’ll remember that he likes hanging out with us more than he likes staying home to play videogames._

“Tommy says remember you’re all invited out for tacos tonight,” Jon says. 

“Fine,” Lovett says. He tips back in his chair and heaves a put upon sigh. “I guess we can forget the jello thing.” 

 

 

It’s still light out when they all meet up at the Mexican place; Tommy and Taylor have staked out a patio table, and Taylor stands to exchange introductions, handshakes, and hugs with the onslaught of Crooked employees.

“Hey,” Jon says when it’s his turn. He tugs her easily under his arm and squeezes. “How was the flight?” 

“Fine,” she says. “A little bumpy.” 

“Urgh,” Jon says. He drops into the seat next to Tommy. “There’s nothing ‘fine’ about that.” 

Taylor sits too, laughing. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “I forget.” 

“Quit thinking about it,” Tommy says, which he must know is pointless advice because he follows it up with an actual distraction: “Do you know what you’re gonna order yet?” 

Jon knocks their shoulders together in silent appreciation and peers at the menu Tommy’s holding. 

“What’s good here?” Taylor asks. When Jon glances up she’s looking over at him. He’s leaning into Tommy to read the menu—nothing he wouldn’t normally be doing. Nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times before. 

“Everything,” Mukta chimes in from across the table. 

“Well I appreciate the endorsement, but that’s not going to help me _choose_ ,” Taylor says, grinning. She looks back down at her own menu. Jon settles on enchiladas, and settles back into his own space. 

 

 

It keeps happening, is the thing. 

Lovett and Travis get into a performative argument over the cocktail menu and Jon throws his head back and his arm around Tommy’s shoulders to laugh. 

Tommy shows them all pictures of dogs he’s thinking of adopting and Jon reaches out to steady his hand so he can see Tommy’s phone screen without sunglare. 

It’s not like Taylor _says_ anything. Which makes sense: there’s nothing to say. Jon’s known Tommy since 2007 and in that time it’s never been remarkable for Jon to touch him. It’s not remarkable tonight, either. 

Except tonight Jon keeps remembering the strain in Tommy’s voice when he’d said, “I tried to explain,” and, “I just don’t want her thinking I’m keeping stuff from her.”

So maybe Jon should be trying harder to keep his distance. It’s just—

Tommy raises his hand for the check when their waitress swings by at the end of the night, and Jon automatically leans over to see it. 

“I can treat,” he says. 

“I invited you all out,” Tommy says. “Innumerable well-mannered and WASP-y ancestors would roll over in their graves if I let you pay.” 

“Don’t disturb the WASPs, Jon,” Lovett intones from across the table. 

“We could split it,” Jon says. He’s close enough to Tommy to feel the broad, sun-warmed heat of him, but not quite close enough to touch. It’s a strangely specific distance. “I’m just saying, I’m pretty sure you paid _last_ time, so—”

“Boys, boys,” Tanya says. “There’s a perfectly reasonable solution here. Split it, and give yourselves a story to tell in the next Cash App ad.” 

“The Cash App: for when you need to upset a bunch of dead Protestants!” Lovett says. 

Jon could move. He _should_ move. The conversation’s finished; Tommy’s got his card out to pay. There’s nothing more to glean from the check. 

Jon leans in a little closer, instead, and presses his shoulder against Tommy’s. Tommy turns to look at him, a furrow between his eyebrows. He doesn’t look upset so much as—uncertain, maybe. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” Jon says, and shrugs in response to the unasked question. It knocks their shoulders together again and he waits, a beat, before he pulls back. 

It’s just that he isn’t going to stop touching Tommy twenty-four hours after he found out that Tommy isn’t one hundred percent straight. He’s not going to be that guy. 

 

 

Tommy does get the check, of course, and they all spill back out onto the sidewalk in little knots of conversation. Jon can hear Lovett and Tanya cooing over Pundit, and Taylor and Mukta are just down the block, their heads bent together. 

“You alright?” Tommy asks. “You’re kind of—quiet.” 

“I’m good,” Jon says. “Dinner was good. It was good to see Taylor, too.”

“Everything’s good, huh?” Tommy asks. His mouth twists to the side, wry, like he’s poking fun at Jon but at himself, too. Which doesn’t make any sense—Jon’s the former speechwriter who just used the word ‘good’ three times in as many sentences. There’s nothing to make fun of _Tommy_ for in this scenario. “I’m sorry if I made it weird. All the stuff with Taylor and everything—I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t,” Jon says. “Taylor was—”

“Good?” Tommy says, his mouth still curved up to one side.

“Shut up,” Jon says, reflexive. He smiles back; that’s reflexive too. 

Tommy’s looking at him like he’s waiting for the real answer, or at least the rest of the answer. And Jon hasn’t quite ordered his thoughts, but it’s Tommy. Twelve years on, he can offer Tommy what he’s got and trust him to help Jon work out the rest as he goes. 

“I was just—it’s not about Taylor, and it’s not—it’s your choice who you date and who you tell about it. But I guess I just want to make sure you know that you could’ve told me,” Jon says. 

Something surprised washes across Tommy’s face but, to his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know what Jon’s talking about.

“I know that,” he says instead. “I just didn’t want it to be a—whatever. A thing.” 

If “good” is imprecise, “a thing” is ten times worse, Jon thinks. 

“I wouldn’t have, uh—” He clears his throat. His voice is fraying at the edges. “For the record I wouldn’t have made it a thing.”

Tommy blinks, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“Not like that,” he says. His voice is quiet, but it’s steady. “Not like—I wasn’t worried you’d be, uh. Uncool about it. Just, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, and it felt like—no matter what we were talking about as soon as I say hey, I date guys sometimes, then that’s what we’re talking about. It’s just hard to work it into casual conversation and keep the conversation casual. Or at least—I felt like that, for a while. And then it just didn’t come up I guess.”

“I get that,” Jon says. He has a vivid memory of the two of them in the house in Chicago, drunk and half-delirious with exhaustion, talking about the fucking filibuster of all things. It had been late, past midnight, and they’d been the only two people still awake. Everything had felt close, and quiet, and Jon had tipped his head back against the arm of the couch and swung his feet up into Tommy’s lap and asked Tommy about the _filibuster_. 

It doesn’t matter, Jon thinks. He knows now. Why should it matter that he didn’t know then? 

“Not that I need to—just, thank you for explaining,” he says. “You didn’t have to but I really, uh. I really appreciate it. And thank you for telling me. I should’ve said that before. For the record I’m normally better at this conversation.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Tommy says. He’s smiling, warm, none of the teasing turned inward any longer. Jon wants to reach out and—touch his elbow, maybe, grip it through the sleeve of Tommy’s dress shirt. It’s an oddly particular thing to want; probably what he really wants is to steady himself. The back of his throat aches. He’s more relieved than he realized he’d be. 

“Taylor’s probably getting the wrong idea,” he says, nodding toward where she's standing a ways down the sidewalk, still talking to Mukta. Tommy's close enough to touch, even if Jon's not touching. 

“At the risk of being, uh, overly earnest or—this conversation is more important to me than whatever idea Taylor’s getting right now,” Tommy says. 

“Okay,” Jon says again. It feels inadequate. He wants to say more, or—Taylor’s right there, but he wants—maybe he sways forward, or maybe Tommy just knows him well enough to see it on his face, but either way he rolls his eyes.

“Dude, what did I _just_ say?” He asks. 

Jon shrugs, caught out and only a little sheepish, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy squeezes back, which Jon wouldn’t have said he was waiting for until he feels his own shoulders drop. 

The truth of it Jon thinks as he hangs on, feeling Tommy’s shirt bunch under his hands, is that Tommy moved the four hundred miles from San Francisco to LA and Jon still wants him closer. Has _always_ wanted him closer.

Why should it matter that he didn’t know then? What would have changed? 

“I wouldn’t change this,” Tommy says, stepping back. “Like—” he clears his throat. “Like, any of this, okay? You, and me, and the—the company, this thing we’re all building, I wouldn’t change any of it. Forget Taylor said anything, and forget I said anything about it. Okay?” 

“I am forgetting about it even as we speak,” Jon says automatically. He isn’t. He’s thinking about Taylor seeing the two of them together, the two of them moving Tommy into a house in LA. Moving Tommy within reach. Taylor seeing that, and thinking— 

“I would change, uh,” he says, and almost startles at the sound of his own voice. “I’d change something.” 

Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

“I just moved down here so I could help helm a burgeoning media empire,” he says. “Bad time to back out, Favreau.” He’s smiling, a little hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s in on the joke. 

It’s dark around them; the last streaks of daylight faded as they left the restaurant and now it’s close, and quiet. If Jon had known that night in Chicago—any night in Chicago—that Tommy dated guys—

He sways forward, back into Tommy’s orbit, and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

“That,” he says. He settles back on his heels. “That’s what I’d change.” 

For a moment Tommy doesn't say anything. Jon's caught between the urge to explain himself and the urge to just lean forward and do it again, to touch Tommy's hip or his wrist or the broad span of his back and kiss him—it's staggering, almost, to think of all the times he's touched Tommy without kissing him.

Tommy clears his throat.

"Taylor—" he says, and Jon thinks, unbidden: _Something out of nothing_. He feels heat creep up the back of his neck; it prickles in his throat. 

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't—" 

"That's not what I meant," Tommy says in a rush. "I meant—Taylor thought we were, uh, together because she knows—she might've been predisposed to think that because she knows I've been hung up on you for a—for a long time. If we're, you know, admitting things.”

It's not quite a question, but it's close. 

“I don’t want Taylor to get the wrong idea,” Jon says. “I want her idea to have been right.”

“That’s a pretty convoluted way to ask somebody out,” Tommy says. He’s smiling. The curve of his mouth is soft in the dim light. “Didn’t you used to make a living as a communications professional? I think I heard that somewhere.” 

"Can I kiss you again?” Jon asks. 

“Yes,” Tommy says. “You can—yes.”


End file.
